It's been a crazy, crazy year here at Suburban Turmoil. So much has happened that it's hard to believe only one year has passed. So let's take a look back at the carnage.

Back in January, I was struggling with Professor Owl, a stuffed animal I found dirt cheap at a garage sale- all because he'd been stuffed with Satanic powers! Damn that owl! You can guess who emerged the winner in this scrape. Mid-January, I was nominated for the Best of Blogs Mommyblogger award and found myself locked in a heated battle against some of the best mommybloggers out there. I realized that with my miniscule readership, I could never hope to compete against the rest of the finalists, but miraculously (with help from stories about my hoo ha, my bra size and a night out that involved both duct tape and vomit [and, FYI, if you are one of my family members, you are hereby prohibited from clicking on any of these links]), I freakin' won! This ended up being a big deal for me- Lots of new people showed up and started reading and better yet, my husband realized that perhaps the blog thing actually wasn't just for cyberlesbians who were pretending to be mommies in an effort to try and recruit me. Warily, he finally offered his support to the project.

February was a relatively slow month. My stepdaughters were revealed to be alien decoys, I wrote a revenge e-mail forward, my writing was featured over at The Mother's Movement Online and The Whole Mom, and I experienced schadenfreudish excitement over the ice skating portion of the Winter Olympics.

In March, MommaK and I debuted the Perfect Post Awards, I met the great Busy Mom in person for the first time, attempted to party with rock stars, got lockjaw, and skiied Purgatory. Good times.

Something about April convinced me to admit that my dog is a pervert. I also became a Dot Mom, engaged in a battle royale with the packaging of a Dora doll, attempted potty training for the first (and second and third) time, and made the most gut-wrenching mistake I've made yet as a mom. Oh yeah, and I also became a columnist over at Mamazine.

In May, I was featured on Mommybloggers, wrote about my infatuation, helped Susie Sunshine launch Mamarazzi, experienced Shitty Friend Syndrome, and convinced myself I was dying.

June was another big month. I became a newspaper columnist at the Nashville Scene and revealed my true identity on my blog. That was a truly terrifying moment. I also cured my Shitty Friend Syndrome, and got dissed by the First Wives' Club.

Out of the blogging closet in July, I went to my first blogger party, sent a few public library patrons into an uproar, got fed up with the Mommy Wars, got knocked up, became a suburban Cinderella groupie, and spent a week in LA.

In August, I dealt with the trials and tribulations of the first trimester, got some folks worked up over the immigration debate, posted the first picture of my baby-to-be, and wrote the post that inspired me to later check out a baby beauty pageant for myself.

In September, I began wearing the now-infamous Trophy Wife t-shirt. I was horrified when I attended my first baby beauty pageant and the experience sparked a number of controversial posts. And after reading a bizarre book on obeying your husband and fascinating him with your feminity, I spent a week trying to follow its advice.

It wasn't until October that I got up the guts to admit my Wiggles obsession and I'm secretly convinced that this post is what actually convinced Greg Wiggle to resign from the group. I went playgroup hopping, wrote a column about it, and invoked the wrath of the Green Hills MOMS Club, an incident that has become legendary around these parts. I shared a few of my guilty secrets and boy, you guys did too. And my parents found out about my blog.

In November, we learned that the fourth Ferrier child will be a boy. A boy! Hell froze over and my grandmother started reading my blog. My blog and I were written up in the Tennessean, complete with a totally embarrassing picture of me (Ya took ten pictures. Wasn't there one where my eye wasn't half-closed??). I signed up for the FlyLady's e-mails and almost joined her Cult of Clean. I tried unschooling the girls for a day and was linked to a conspiracy involving me, Dr. Phil and the New York Times. I realized that all my friends have grown up. And I went ghost hunting and broke my foot.

December found me combing the city for the Best-Ever Santa. I discovered that the Devil has gone out of style and explored the world of attachment parenting. I was D-Listed by Bobbie Thomas (thank God it later turned out that a flack was to blame!) and was informed that my blog isn't happy enough. And I learned the stunning news that Rockettes are people, too.

And that's the Suburban Turmoil Year in Review. I can't thank you guys enough for coming back here over and over again, for your comments, your e-mails and your perspective. This blog has literally changed my life, thanks in large part to all of you, and I can't wait to see what 2007 holds.

Happy New Year!

"Boy, this Ritzy Chicken is always great," Hubs said the other night as we ate dinner. "You know, this is totally going to be one of those recipes that you hand down and the girls make some day for their families."

"I don't think I'll be cooking though," 16 said, wrinkling her nose.

"Yeah," 13 agreed quickly, "Me neither."

"And besides," 16 continued in all seriousness, "I'm going to be an actress, so I'll have someone cooking my meals for me."

So, um, if anyone has kids who do plan on cooking some day? Or who would at least like a good main course suggestion to pass on to their hired help? Let me know and I'll be happy to pass on my recipe.

Watch out, mommybloggers, there may be some new competition invading our turf:

Rockette Mommy.

I got a chance to sit down with Corrinna Lindholm several days ago for this week's Nashville Scene column. She's a Radio City Rockette, in town for the Radio City Christmas Spectacular currently playing here in Nashville. She's also mother to a 4-year-old girl and a 2-year-old boy and she's brought both of them with her from Chicago for the show's two-month rehearsal and run.

And I thought my life was difficult.

Corrinna has been a Rockette for ten years now, so chances are she'll be throwing in the maribou soon. We talked for a while about how scary it can be to lose your career identity when making the decision to stay at home with the kids, particularly when the career is high-profile, like TV reporter or Rockette. I asked her what she wanted to do next.

"Actually, I'd like to try writing," she said. "Sort of like what you're doing. How did you end up with your job?"

And another potential mommyblogger was born. I gave her my web address, along with the URLs of some of my other favorite mommybloggers and encouraged her to start posting.

"If it's good, people will read it," I said. "And they'll come back. And I think you've already got a good head start on the competition, since you'd be the only Rockette Mommyblogger out there."

I'm just saying... If Rockette Mommy starts showing up all over Internetland, you heard it here first. You can read more about the ups and downs of life as a Rockette Mommy right here, in this week's edition of the Nashville Scene.

Christmas is over. Whew!

Gone are the Christmases of my childhood, when I laid around eating candy and looking over my presents. These last two days have been so busy, I haven't had time to even think about posting. From endless cooking, baking, pulling out the nice china, crystal and silver, last-minute wrapping, getting everyone presentable for church, laying out stockings and cookies and milk and watching family Christmas movies to cleaning up wrapping paper, saving bows, putting batteries in toys, playing Pictionary (which is really the worst game ever), arguing over Pictionary (which is really the worst game ever), hand-washing and putting away the nice china, crystal and silver, I loved (almost) every minute of it, but I have a litle secret to share with you.

I'm glad it's over.

To those of you still blessed with cherubic young children, I stand on the other side of puberty right now, calling across to you over its turbulent, zit-pus-filled waters to please, please appreciate their cherubicity while it lasts because Christmas with teenagers is an altogether different experience from what you've got going now. Hubs and I have endured 24-7 guffawing these last few days over everything from our board game-playing skills to our (unintentional!) coordinating pajamas on Christmas morning. It has exactly the same effect as Chinese water torture, in that I am about to crack.

Because let me tell you, being mocked over my pajamas at seven fucking a-m is not my idea of a good time.

"I seem to remember the two of you wearing matching beagle t-shirts not that long ago," I said irritatedly, standing pregnant and fuming in my red flannel pajamas as the girls chortled on the sofa. "I don't know why you think our pajamas are so funny."

"Because when I did it," 16 screeched, "I was in FOURTH GRADE!" And the laughter went to eleven.

"Is it too late to take these presents back?" I asked Hubs.

Also, in a bizarre and twisted turn of events, 16, who spent the last two weeks being a vegetarian (i.e., eating carbs, carbs, carbs and vegetables swimming in cheese sauce in lieu of any meat products whatsoever, until Hubs asked her whether she realized that she was on a weight-gaining diet, at which point she weighed herself and freaked the hell out), decided two days before Christmas to go on Atkins.

Except that she didn't bother to read anything about Atkins, so it's like a weird version of Atkins in which she's decided to eat only a pound of sandwich meat and a bunch of boiled eggs every day. The problem is that prior to making this genius pseudo-Atkins decision, she had already requested creamed corn, mashed potatoes, chocolate stout cake and pumpkin bread for Christmas. Which I made. And which she then refused to touch.

Need I even waste time and word space typing out how annoying this was? No. Let's move on to the guilty secret portion of this post.

Guess what I got for Christmas? Season one of Little House on the Prairie. I can't explain how much I've been craving finally watching this show from start to finish. I loved it as a child, but saw it in reruns on TBS, all out of order, and now, I'm determined to finally watch every episode, as it happened. I wondered as I put the first disc in yesterday if I would finally recognize it as as the schmaltzy, Hallmark card show it's touted to be, but oh sweet jeebus, put me in a one-room log cabin with a youngish Michael Landon, three girls who actually help with chores and a quilt for a door and I swear, I'll be happy for the rest of my days. I told my husband that I think the show appealed to me as a child because Charles Ingalls was the perfect dad, masculine and rugged with a sensitive side, not to mention mad fiddle-playing skillz. And as an adult, I'm liking the show even more, because Carolyn is kind of bitchy sometimes and I can totally relate (I mean, I'd be all, I hate this dirt floor and I also hate your friend who spits, too!), and because you can tell she totally has a real-life crush on Michael Landon there in the beginning, and because Melissa Gilbert is so deliciously ugly and not like a Hollywood child actor at all. And I got a good laugh over the "Indians," who were white guys in brown makeup and black eyeliner- Was it really that hard to find SAG card-carrying Native Americans? Gah! So yeah. If you can't find me, I'm probably watching Little House, at least for the next five or so years (I mean, didn't that show run about 37 seasons?).

And to prove I'm not a total dork (despite what my girls would tell you), I also got excellent CDs by Vienna Teng, Imogen Heap and Regina Spektor, Gilmore Girls Season 3 and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind on DVD, among other things.

And as an aside, I'm reading Running with Scissors right now and I totally love it. It's cracking me up.

This post is running on and on, but we had a lot of catching up to do, you know?

My mom called this morning, way earlier than normal.

"Hello?" I answered warily.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine. What do you mean?"

"Well, you hadn't blogged, so I feared the worst. I know you've had a cold, so I thought maybe you were in the hospital."

"Mom. I'm fine. We went Christmas shopping yesterday and didn't get back until late. Plus, I'm working on a writing project right now, so I figured I'd work on that and blog a little less over the holidays."

"Well, okay. I just figured I'd check in and make sure you were all right. Because I got up very early this morning and you still hadn't blogged, so..."

Thank God I can finally put away that white bikini...

Hello Lindsay:

As part of our ongoing work with on-line writers, our team regularly visits your blog, Suburban Turmoil. As such, we were shocked to notice your recent posting about the drop in communication regarding questions for Bobbie Thomas. Please note that "Anita Lyfe" is no longer with our company. Unfortunately we did not realize her departure left you waiting for a response. We apologize that your questions to Bobbie were never answered, and hopefully this explains the lack of communication from Bobbie herself. Again, our apologies for the miscommunication.

Thank you for your time.

Regards,

Ernest Lee Surrey
Senior Vice President, Big Public Relations Firm

If you're wondering what all the kids are watching these days, here you go.

"There's nothing more disgusting than pregnancy and labor," a friend of mine declared last week at a Christmas party.

I had to agree. In fact, I think the real reason that mothers are able to catch their children's vomit in their hands and clean kiddie diarrhea off the walls without batting an eyelash has less to do with unconditional love and more to do with the fact that they've been through far, far worse in the process of giving birth to said child.

But while I think I know why we can deal with the more disgusting aspects of motherhood, I've never understood why on earth we feel the need to share our most stomach-turning pregnancy/labor experiences with everyone we meet, from our son's third grade teacher to the veterinarian-on-call at the animal hospital.

Finally, I got answers from a professional in this week's Nashville Scene. Find out what I learned here.

And how could I forget to include placenta recipes? Here you go...

Placenta Recipes (Mothering Magazine, September 1983, Vol. 28, pg 76) Each placenta weighs approximately 1/6 of the baby's weight. Cut the meat away from the membranes with a sharp knife. Discard the membranes.

Placenta Cocktail: 1/4 cup raw placenta, 8oz V-8 juice, 2 ice cubes, 1/2 cup carrot. Blend at high speed for 10 seconds

Placenta Lasagne: Use your favorite lasagne recipe and substitute this mixture for one layer of cheese. In 2 tbl. olive oil, quickly saute meat of 3/4 placenta, ground or minced plus 2 sliced cloves of garlic, 1/2 tsp. oregano, 1/2 diced onion & 2 tbl. tomato paste, or 1 whole tomato.

Placenta Spaghetti: Cut meat of 3/4 placenta into bite size pieces, then brown quickly in 1 tbl. butter plus 1 tbl. oil. Then add 1 large can tomato puree, 2 cans crushed pear tomatoes, 1 onion, 2 cloves of garlic, 1 tbl. molasses, 1 bay leaf, 1 tbl. rosemary, 1 tsp. ea. of salt, honey, oregano, basil, and fennel. Simmer 1 1/2 hours.

Placenta Stew: Meat of 3/4 placenta in bite size chunks, 1 potato (cubed), 1/4 cup fresh parsley, 2 carrots, 3 ribs celery, 1 zucchini, 1 large tomato, 1 small onion. Dredge meat in 1 tbl. flour mixed with 1 tsp salt, 1/2 tsp. paprika, pinch of cloves, pinch of pepper, 6-8 crushed coriander seeds. Saute meat in 2 tbl. oil, then add vegetables (cut up) and 4-5 cups of water. Bring to full boil, then simmer for 1 hour.

Placenta Pizza: Grind placenta. Saute in 2 tbl. olive oil with 4 garlic cloves, then add 1/4 tsp fennel, 1/4 tsp. pepper, 1/4 tsp paprika, 1/4 tsp. salt, 1/2 tsp. oregano, 1/4 tsp. thyme, and 1/4 cup of wine. Allow to stand for 30 minutes, then use with your favorite home made pizza recipe. It's a fine placenta sausage topping.

Time for another blogging book tour! And some bonus stuff, too.

Go here to read about the latest cool body book for teenage girls. Or go here if you need some last-minute gift ideas. Or go here for more cool links.

And be sure and stop by here this afternoon to read what must be the grossest column I've ever written. No kidding.

A commenter informed me yesterday that there is not enough HAPPY in my blog, that while some of my blog is funny, there is no HAPPY in it, and that I need to post something HAPPY.

This comment couldn't have come at a better time. I've been up nearly every night for more than a week changing sheets, pajamas and diapers in the wake of the puke/diarrhea that comes with Baby's rotovirus, I have a cold, a fever and a broken foot, I'm six-and-a-half-months pregnant and I'm trying to meet interview/writing deadlines for a couple of writing projects that are due before Christmas. All this in addition to the normal carpooling/doctor's appointments/Christmas shopping/meal preparing/housekeeping duties that don't miraculously disappear, no matter how many times I click my heels. I don't write much about all this stuff because, well, it's not very HAPPY.

But apparently, that's not good enough. I've been instructed to "post something HAPPY" and I have to say that I really, really love it when people tell me what I should be writing on my own blog. That in itself makes me very HAPPY.

So, dear commenter, in lieu of a long post on why rotovirus sucks (average sick period: 10-14 days), along with people who bring their rotovirus-carrying kids to my Christmas party (and while I don't know who you are, I'm quite sure you do), I will grant your wish and instead offer up the following:

There. Happy?